Detachment
by T. Z. Townshend
Summary: Sherlocke Holmes is a brilliant, accomplished young lady who is content to spend her life in her parents' home with her books, which is just as well considering that society finds her entirely disagreeable. Fate, however, decides to throw a coroner from London at her and make things complicated. Regency AU. Rule 63.


**A/N: This is a thing that happened because I was bored and thus decided to view my mother's DVD collection of Jane Austen adaptations.**

It was the considered opinion of Sherlocke Holmes that any young woman with no romantic wants and no financial worries should not be pressed to find herself a husband, especially when one's older sister has already taken care of continuing the family legacy. Sherlocke cared little for the expectations of society and was perfectly content to live out her days in her parents' home, pursuing every intellectual curiosity which struck her fancy. Many found this attitude to be utterly unbecoming of a young lady and pleaded with her father, the distinguished mathematician Morgan Holmes, to instill some propriety in her. Mr. Holmes could not bear to see his daughter so unhappy as she would be if she were forced into marriage, so he never took to the subject with her, though he did, with the help of his wife, encourage Sherlocke to be more sociable. The success of that encouragement remained to be seen.

Even if marriage had been something Miss Holmes would consider, it was unlikely that any man would consent to wed her. She was well known in society for being one of the most disagreeable young ladies in all of England. She had an observant mind and a sharp tongue with which to voice her observations, much to the distaste of her peers. It did not seem that she could attend a single gathering without paying at least one person grave insult. There was perhaps only one person in the world who saw fit to call her friend: Miss Jean Watson, the daughter of a kind hearted army captain.

Jean was in awe of Sherlocke's accomplishments and was always eager to hear her read her latest scientific findings or play her violin. In unspoken repayment for Jean's friendship, Sherlocke would occasionally agree to attend social functions, despite the uncomfortableness it brought her. She knew it meant a great deal to Jean to have a dear friend at her side.

Unlike Sherlocke, Jean was a romantic and dreamed of finding the perfect man. She was fortunate to be very beautiful, not in the ethereal way that Sherlocke was, but in a warm and genial way that caused nearly all who met her to find her very agreeable. Sherlocke did not envy the attention given her friend for it was not the sort of attention she desired. She would much rather have been recognized for her wit and knowledge than an ability to put on the pretense of amiability. Recognition for the latter seemed a false and specious thing to her, but she had learnt long ago that no one would hear her words on the matter, so she held her tongue when she felt the urge to speak on it. In fact, over the years, she had collected a long list of things about which she was forced to remain silent and as such, she did very little talking to people who were not close to her. Jean had agreed that this was probably for the best.

In recent years, Sherlocke had become nothing more than a strange spectre at Jean's side when they attended various sorts of parties together. Sherlocke preferred it this way. If she was left alone, the evening would pass much more easily and she would sooner be allowed to return home to her books and chemistry equipment. Still, watching Jean enjoy herself left a painful void in Sherlocke's chest for which she had no name.

Perhaps the worst case of this horrible, unnamed feeling was at the Hudson's summer ball one year. Jean had persuaded her to dress in her very best for the occasion, so there she was in a lovely dark amaranth gown with her raven hair done up in a perfect braided pile. She sat alone in a corner ignored by others as she watched Jean dance with a new young man, a surgeon by the cut of his clothes and his unusually steady and precise movements. Jean had had flirtations with many men over the years, but none so far had been the one for her. Sherlocke predicted that this would be another for the list of unsuitables.

The dark haired young woman was not without envy of Jean's enjoyment of the dance. Sherlocke herself greatly enjoyed dancing. The only trouble was that there was no one here with whom she desired to dance and none who desired to dance with her, so all chances of anything about this evening being enjoyable were nonexistent in her eyes. Despite her suppression of her envy, the void in her chest remained. She dared not retreat into her mind and examine that great emptiness. There was something frightening about it. It was silly to feel that way, she told herself, but no amount of logic seemed to be able to push the devilish thing down.

So distracted was Sherlocke by her own peculiar emotional difficulty that she failed to notice that Jean and her new acquaintance were standing before her until her name was spoken.

"Sherlocke, allow me to introduce you to Dr. Sawyer. He's a doctor from London. Dr. Sawyer, this is my dear friend Sherlocke Holmes." Sherlocke felt like a trained animal, standing to give Dr. Sawyer a brief curtsey.

"A surgeon, to be exact," she commented, earning her a rather surprised look from the young man and an exasperated one from Jean (before she replaced it quickly with a smile).

"Yes, my friend is gifted in observation and logic. She can discern a great deal about a person just by looking," Jean was quick to explain.

"Is that so? What more do you know of me?" Dr. Sawyer asked and Sherlocke heavily resisted the temptation to roll her eyes derisively. Jean would never let her hear the end of it if she did.

"You are very busy in your work. Your stay here is meant to alleviate the poor health which has resulted from fatigue. You are also not given the entirety of what you are due by your employer, although I shall require further data to determine exactly why that is." Sherlocke spoke rather more quickly than might be considered proper, but she never paid attention to such things. Dr. Sawyer was affronted by her words and hastily made excuses to end their conversation. Good. She had not wished to speak with him anyway...yet the void seemed to grow with this rejection of her intellect and the blooming of a new crossness from Jean.

"I do not believe we are acquainted," a baritone voice to her left spoke and she looked around to see a visually stunning man with dark hair and green eyes. Sherlocke, in her emotional upheaval, made to quickly drive the stranger away.

"We are not," she replied curtly and the young man had the audacity to smirk.

"My name is Ian Adler. I am friend to Jane Moriarty." Oh, now that captured Sherlocke's interest, and not in a pleasant way. Jane Moriarty was a creature who delighted in bending others to her will and finding new ways to torment Sherlocke.

"Are you indeed?" She wondered how terse she would need to be in order for Mr. Adler to accept that she did not want his attention.

"Dear me, I seem to have stained my reputation with you already. Well, we can't have that. I shall have to prove my character to you. Will you permit me the honour of a dance?" That certain took Sherlocke by surprise. She had not been asked to stand up with a man in five years and this one did not appear to be deterred by her sharp tongue. Intrigued, the words of acceptance spilled from her mouth before she could stop herself. Mr. Adler's grin broadened and he offered her his hand, which she cautiously took, allowing him to guide her to the dance floor. "Forgive me, young lady, but will you not furnish me with your name?" Mr. Adler asked as the stepped artfully around each other.

"Clearly you already know it," she responded and the gleam in his eyes brightened.

"I am pleased to meet you at last, Miss Holmes. I have heard a great deal about you."

"What has inspired you to seek a dance with the most unsociable woman in England? Is it merely for being able to say that you have done so? You are a man deeply ingrained in the ebb and flow of society; that is easy enough to see. I should tell you that I am not a woman who takes to being the object of a quest."

"I did not think you were. From what I hear, you are very much the hunter, not the hunted." For the first time, Sherlocke was aware that she was being flirted with. Furthermore, she had not the faintest idea how to behave in the face of it.

"I am a hunter of knowledge only, Mr. Adler. Surely you have heard of my continuing journey to spinsterhood," she responded quickly, taking a moment of facing away from him in the dance to breathe deeply and clear her mind.

"That is of course what I was referring to. Why did you think I spoke of men?" Sherlocke floundered for words to give in reply to that. She cursed herself for falling into Mr. Adler's verbal trap. Obviously he wished to fluster her, to gain the upper hand. Well, she would certainly not allow it. Conceding defeat was not in her nature. Still, it captivated her that this man was clever enough to make her stumble. Perhaps he was worth her consideration. Of course, it would be the same manner of consideration which she paid Miss Moriarty. Sherlocke was most definitely not prepared to trust her new acquaintance. She was guarded enough with her trust among the honest; she would be a fool indeed if she did not show even greater care with those silver of tongue.

The dance ended and Sherlocke gave Mr. Adler a short curtsey out of resect for his more than adequate dancing ability. She opened her mouth to say something terribly witty, but she was interrupted by the appearance of Jean.

"There you are, Sherlocke. I did not expect to find you here."

"I did not expect to be here," Sherlocke shot back under her breath. Mr. Adler turned his arresting green gaze to Jean and smirked, much to Sherlocke's displeasure.

"And who is this charming young lady, may I ask?"

"Mr. Adler, this is Jean Watson. She is my dear friend but I dare say you will not find her very interesting." Jean's stormy blue eyes flashed with hurt and offense at this, but Sherlocke made no expression of apology. She did not regret protecting her from so dangerously charming a man.

"Please excuse us, sir," Jean said before guiding Sherlocke away to speak with her more privately. "Why are you behaving with such beastliness this evening? Have I done something to wrong you?" she inquired, her sandy brows furrowed with hurt.

"No, you have not."

"Then please explain yourself."

"Is the name Ian Adler familiar to you?"

"Yes. The name is frequently found in the society section of the paper. Its owner has a reputation for being rather free with his affections."

"That is the man with whom you just spoke." A look of shock found its way onto Jean's features immediately following this statement and she peeked over her friend's shoulder for a moment to glimpse the man in question.

"He's certainly as handsome as they say. What were you doing dancing with him?"

"He insisted and I thought it better to enjoy a dance than to cause a scene." That was not quite true, but it was a satisfactory answer to Jean. "I did not want you to fall to his charms." That was true and it earned Sherlocke a heavy scowl.

"I can navigate the attentions of such a man without your help, Sherlocke. And what of your behaviour to Dr. Sawyer? I do believe you have deliberately put him off." Seeing as there was no end to Jean's displeasure in sight, Sherlocke chose the quickest path to ending the conversation.

"He was not suitable for you, Jean."

"That is not for you to decide," the blonde woman huffed angrily, trying desperately not to let to much of her indignation boil to the surface. "I think it would be best if we took our leave now, before you do either of us any further social injury." That sounded perfectly agreeable to Sherlocke, so she nodded and followed her unhappy friend out. The sooner she was home, the sooner the ache in her chest would disappear.

* * *

Sherlocke Holmes did not go out into society again or even hear from Jean Watson for an entire two months. She was not terribly concerned about it and was content to bury herself in her interests, though the feeling in her heart seemed to have followed her home and she began to wonder if she was falling ill. The weather had taken a fair turn and so she tried to improve her health by going on rides with her horse or walks through the woods, reciting to herself information about the flora and fauna that came under her silver blue gaze. While the fresh air did do her some good, the ache remained.

At a loss for what to do about her problem, Sherlocke distracted herself with books, and not the volumes of various sciences which usually captivated her, but sensational novels of adventure and philosophical exploration. There was something new and different about these texts which held her attention deeply enough to keep her from that strange uncomfortableness inside her for a time.

In late June, Sherlocke received a letter from Jean which informed her of a family friend who had come to stay at Captain Watson's home. The man's name was Matthew Hooper and he was a coroner at a hospital in London who had come out the country at the behest of a mother concerned for his health. Sherlocke was prepared to comment on Jean's taste for medical men until she read on to discover that while Jean found Dr. Hooper to be quite an agreeable man, she could not imagine herself as a coroner's wife and thus made it clear that her intentions toward him were only that of friendship. Beyond his occupation, there did not appear to be anything at all interesting to Sherlocke about this Dr. Hooper fellow and so she promptly forgot all about him after sending off her reply to Jean, which included the declination of an invitation to dine with the Watsons and their guest.

Two and a half weeks later, Sherlocke was sitting under a beech tree in her well favoured cornflower blue dress, an exciting novel resting on her knees, when the unthinkable happened. She was pulled away from her reading by the sound of a horse's hooves on grass nearby. Looking up, she caught sight of a young man on a white stead. His neatly arranged hair was mouse brown and his clothes plain. From were Sherlocke sat, he seemed utterly dull, so she attempted to return to her book. Unfortunately, it seemed that he was headed for her.

"P-Pardon me, young lady, but I'm, er, I'm looking for Oxfield. Might you direct me?" There was nervousness in the young man's voice and Sherlocke could not fathom why. With a small sigh, she looked up from her novel at the figure who was now only a few yards from her. It was much easier to see his features now. He wore a pleasant smile on thin lips that brought light to his large brown eyes. He was having difficulty maintaining eye contact with her and his pale cheeks had turned slightly rosy. He was a shy man, then, not accustomed to speaking with strangers in such a way. Despite her annoyance at him for interrupting her reading, she did not acquire the urge to put him off. For some reason she could not name, it seemed to her that making a fool of this man was beneath her.

"The house is a mile north of here, but you may be disappointed to find that its owner is not present," Sherlocke finally answered, getting to her feet and brushing off her dress.

"Then it is fortunate that I seek someone else there." This had the effect of drastically changing Sherlocke's opinion of the man, for it was highly unlikely that he had come to see her mother. It seemed obvious now that he was a suitor and that filled her heart with contempt.

"Would that person be a Miss Sherlocke Holmes?" she asked sharply. The sudden change in her manner startled the man and she almost laughed in derision.

"Yes."

"I can assure you that Miss Holmes does not wish to entertain you." The harshness of those words visibly hurt the man, though he tried to stuff down his pain and confusion to maintain his composure, but there could be no denying that he looked forlorn.

"I was informed by a mutual friend that there might be some interest in exchanging literature, but clearly that was a mistake. I am sorry for wasting your time, Miss Holmes." With a polite nod of his head, the young man turned and galloped away.

Sherlocke stood there, stunned, for several minutes, attempting to comprehend the grievous error in judgement that she had just made. That man had been nothing but polite to her, despite her rudeness, and had even apologized to _her_. He had also been clever enough to realize that she was Miss Holmes. On top of that, he had not even come with the express intention of courting her.

The emptiness in her heart had never ached more painfully than it did then.

* * *

Sherlocke did not regret many things, but her treatment of the man who had spoken to her in the woods did manage to fall in this category. She did her best not dwell on it, but the regret weighed on her such that she felt the need to accept Jean's next invitation in punishment. Despite what people said of her, she did have a sense of morality, her very own though it might be.

The event was some ball in the name of some younger sister of a friend of Jean's. Sherlocke did not care to know the details, nor did she care to make too great an effort on her appearance. One of her nicer dresses in forest green was enough for her. Jean did not scold her lack of extravagance when the carriage arrived at Oxfield to take her to the ball. In fact, the young blonde woman said very little, signaling to Sherlocke that she was still somewhat cross over her friend's previous behaviour.

When they arrived, Sherlocke noted how the event was not quite as large as the Hudsons' ball and she wondered if Mr. Adler would be in attendance, for she was interested in a verbal sparring match with him.

"Am I correct in thinking you are looking about for Mr. Adler?" Jean inquired as they entered the main room. Sherlocke glared at her, which had the unfortunate effect of providing an affirmative. "He's not here and given what I recently read in the paper, I do not think it wise for you to ever seek him out."

"A scandal?"

"Indeed."

"I see."

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"You liked him, did you not?" Sherlocke could not help but feel offended at the question. Jean should know better than to accuse her of sentiment.

"I was intrigued by his intellect. Beyond that, I held no interest in him, Jean," Sherlocke shot back. The expression on her friend's face told her that she was not quite believed, but she could not bring herself to care. As was her custom, she gravitated away from Jean and into a dark corner where she could blissfully observe people and be ignored. She was not happy to find her corner already occupied by another.

"H-Hello." It was the brunet man from the forest and Sherlocke sudden felt a strong urge to run away, but she berated herself for it and held her chin high.

"Good evening," she responded tightly. What on Earth was this fellow doing here? And in her isolated spot no less. Had he come just for the purpose of tormenting her?

"I'm sorry that I did not introduce myself to you before. My name is Matthew Hooper. I'm friend to the Watson family." Well, that certainly explained why Jean had still been angry with her during the carriage ride. Sherlocke had mistreated a friend, specifically the Watsons' guest, Dr. Hooper.

"Please forgive my conduct to you on our first meeting." The apology came out free of her will, but she did not curse herself for it. She was genuinely sorry. Dr. Hooper, despite his strange nervousness, had proven himself to be of interest and here she had feared that she had ruined her chance to know him.

"You are forgiven, Miss Holmes. Miss Watson described you to me and it was my impression that you do not find it easy to trust others, particularly men. I do not find fault with you for that," Dr. Hooper replied with a soft smile, one that the corners of Sherlocke's full lips echoed slightly. She did not realize it, but she was charmed by him.

"You seem to understand me in a manner that even Jean does not, sir." The coroner's brown eyes lit up at the compliment and rightfully so. Jean must have told him that Sherlocke was not at all inclined to give out compliments frequently or easily. "What brings you to this corner of the room?" she asked with a smirk and Dr. Hooper laughed. It was a soft but rich sound that she thought oddly delightful.

"As you may have guessed, I do not find engaging in society an easy thing. I never know what to talk about seeing as my work is hardly an appropriate topic," Dr. Hooper admitted sheepishly, glancing down at his feet.

"That is society's loss, doctor." In Sherlocke's opinion, casual discourse among the masses could benefit from including more scientific topics. Alas, that opinion was not shared by others.

"Miss Watson tells me that you have much the same difficulty."

"That's true up to the point that I do not possess your ability to maintain a civil tongue."

"You're doing well enough at present."

"So I am." There was a hint of surprise in Sherlocke's smooth alto voice as she spoke. Dr. Hooper had a strange power to make her want to be a more agreeable person. Stranger still was the fact that it did not concern her. "Do you dance, Dr. Hooper?"

"A little," he answered, turning an interesting shade of pink. "W-Would you...would you like to-"

"Yes." Sherlocke offered Dr. Hooper her hand and he nervously took it, guiding her to the dance floor. His movements had a modest grace to them once he got past his anxiety and she found herself admiring it.

"You must tell me about your work, Miss Holmes. I hear that you have quite a passion for studying the ways of the natural world." A man interested in her pursuits? Now there was peculiarity that was without a doubt worth examining.

"I would be delighted to share my findings with you. Perhaps you would like to call at Oxfield on Saturday next?"

"I look forward to it." Dr. Hooper beamed down at her and she felt a jolt of excitement shoot through her heart. Could it be that she was well on her way to obtaining a new friend? What a bizarrely wonderful thing.

When the dance ended, Sherlocke gave Dr. Hooper a cordial bow, an honest one, which was not a common display by any means. They then retreated to their corner and had just begun to discuss the deterioration of various bodily fluids when they were approached by Jean and a rather well dressed blond man.

"Mr. Morstan, I would like you to meet my friends, Miss Holmes of Oxfield and Dr. Hooper from London," she introduced.

"How do you do," Mr. Morstan said with a bright and genuine smile. Sherlocke scanned her eyes over the man, examining him for any sign that he did not deserve to have Jean on his arm. She was bemused to find nothing concretely suspect.

"This is Mr. Mark Morstan of Agraley. His mother was good friends with mine and has finally returned to live here after his many years of schooling and travel." Jean's gaze turned to Sherlocke, as if to dare her to find fault with this gentleman to whom she had clearly become quite attached in a short period of acquaintance.

"I would be interested to hear of your time in India," Sherlocke responded. The ultimate test of Jean's relationship with a man was, in Sherlocke's opinion, his reaction to her own intellectual gifts.

"Ah, I see that you are indeed as accomplished as Miss Watson has proclaimed. Was it my pearl ring that told you?"

"Yes, it was," Sherlock replied, a slight hint of appreciative awe in her tone. It appeared that Jean had finally found herself a companion that Sherlocke cared to know. The raven haired young lady's lack of impertinence forthwith noticeably excited Jean. Dr. Hooper was looking at Sherlocke in that moment with an emotion that took her some time to identify and there could be no denying that when it occurred to her that he was proud of her that she was just a little flustered. No one had ever reacted to her in quite such a way before and she had no idea how to respond. It was in that moment that he earned a place in the heart she did not know that she had.

* * *

Sherlocke's friendship with Dr. Hooper bloomed over the course of the remainder of the summer. He called at Oxfield often and eagerly assisted her in her experiments. Though he scolded her when her manners were less than acceptable, he never made comment on her gender and the impropriety of her pursuits. He only ever had encouraging words for her when it came to her work and this endeared her greatly to him.

Despite the fact that it would be considered wholly inappropriate by society, her parents allowed her to be alone with Dr. Hooper whenever he came to see her. When he inquired about this, she stated that she was the child of an eccentric mathematician and a woman best defined by her kind and considerate nature. There were very few things that she was not permitted to do at home. Dr. Hooper turned as red as a strawberry when she told him that she could go about in trousers if she liked when there were no guests at Oxfield.

Dr. Hooper's introduction into her life marked the beginning of a period in which she was more sociable than she ever had been previously. She accepted invitations to dine at the Watsons' often and learned the joy of having a small group of friends, for she soon formed a friendship with Mr. Morstan as well. He came to see Jean frequently and was nearly always there when Sherlocke visited. He was a kind and witty gentleman who was perfectly worthy of Jean Watson. It was only a matter of time before an understanding would be reached between the two. Sherlocke did not realize that the pair held the same view in regard to her and Dr. Hooper. In fact, she was completely oblivious to the idea that there might be romantic intent imbedded in her relationship with the coroner. She was too wrapped up in enjoying the fact that she was rarely bored anymore to notice anything of the kind. Dr. Hooper's heart was in the palm of her hand and yet nothing could make that apparent to her.

One evening, after finishing a particularly enjoyable dinner, Jean called on Mr. Morstan (who at that point was her betrothed) and her two friends to think of a way to entertain themselves until Sherlocke was due to return to Oxfield.

"Have you not told me that Miss Holmes is an excellent musician? Perhaps she would agree to play your piano forte for us," Mr. Morstan suggested.

"I'm afraid that my abilities with the violin are far better than those with a piano," Sherlocke confessed uncomfortably. Normally she would revel in the idea of showing off her accomplishments, but music was something different. It was a more personal thing to her that was not for display.

"My, the great Miss Holmes showing modesty? Mark the day," Jean joked, earning her a displeased look from Sherlocke.

"Very well," she replied tersely, preferring to play rather than be further teased by her friends. She sat down before the piano in the corner of the room and placed her long fingers lightly on the keys, closing her eyes for a moment. She then began to play a melancholy tune that she knew quite well. The music flowed from within her and carried her mind to serene, organized places. When she finished, her friends applauded enthusiastically and she looked up to see Dr. Hooper gazing at her with an entranced expression. His mouth hung slightly open and his cheeks flushed when she made eye contact with him.

"You play beautifully, Miss Holmes," he told her quietly.

"If she plays the piano so well, I can only imagine the wonder she creates with a violin," Mr. Morstan commented. Sherlocke did not hear the rest of the conversation. She was too focused on how intriguing and baffling she found Dr. Hooper's behaviour. She watched him, analyzing him, trying to understand why he was so good to her, but the true answer never came to her through her own efforts. Instead, it would be forced upon her by a series of events which she would later come to regret with every fiber of her being.

It began late one afternoon in Sherlocke's study at Oxfield. Dr. Hooper was by her side, assisting her in an experiment involving the effects of certain chemicals on a variety of mosses. They both wore stained aprons and bustled about the place, driven by their curiosity. The atmosphere was, as usual, defined by the easy and carefree interactions of two people who were quite comfortable with each other. Then there came pause in their movements as they patiently waited for a reaction to occur. Sherlocke caught Dr. Hooper's eye and suddenly found herself in a staring match with him. She could not read what he wanted in his body language, to her disappointment, but whatever it was, it was putting him in an increasingly agitated state...until he managed to find his words.

"Miss Holmes, we...I feel that though we have only known each other for a comparatively short time, I know you as if we have been friends for many years. I cannot tell you how much meeting you has changed my life. I therefore...I...would you consider doing me the honour of becoming my wife?" Dr. Hooper took Sherlocke's hand and bent down on one knee. A jolt shot up her arm at his touch and she went completely still. Her mind was in chaos as she attempted to comprehend and react to the man's words. First came fear, because her heart was crying out with an overwhelming warmth that she did not understand. Then came hurt, for her mind told her that Dr. Hooper had deceived her about his intentions from the beginning. This was quickly followed by anger, which burned and blocked out any further reasoning in her head.

"I thought you were different, but you have made a fool of me, Dr. Hooper. You have come to me in friendship time and again and yet _this_ was your pursuit. That is a breech of confidence that I am not willing to forgive," Sherlocke responded, pulling her hand from the coroner's grasp and stepping back from him. A glare of disgust marred her stony features and Dr. Hooper stared back up at her in shock, his brown eyes glistening.

"Miss Holmes, I did not-" he began, but she cut him off, turning her back to him.

"Leave." For a long, agonizing moment, Sherlocke was met with nothing but silence. Her curious nature begged her to look around at him, but her resolve won out.

"If that is what you wish. I apologize for any harm I may have done to you. Farewell, Miss Holmes." His voice was soft and surprisingly steady as he spoke. Sherlocke heard him remove his apron and walk out the door. She did not move until the sound of his horse galloping away came in through the window.

The ache, which she had not even realized had been absent, returned with such force that she pressed her hands to her chest in pain. Her breaths came out in short, rapid increments and the lack of sufficient air soon brought her to her knees. _What have you done to me, Matthew Hooper_, she thought bitterly. How revolting that his departure should have the power to reduce her to a weak, trembling mess. She was better than this. She had to be better than this. She was above feelings, was she not? Dr. Hooper had proven the folly of emotional openness well enough...and yet her heart still yearned for him to return to her.

A servant found Sherlocke hours later, sitting on the floor and staring off into oblivion. She had retreated deep into her mind to destroy her memories of Dr. Matthew Hooper.

The next day, word was received that Dr. Hooper had cut his summer visit with the Watsons short and returned to London. His explanation was 'urgent business' that was apparently awaiting him there.

* * *

In the following months, Sherlocke outwardly returned to the state she had maintained prior to Dr. Hooper's entry into her life. She scarcely left Oxfield and did not entertain any guests but Jean Watson. Inwardly, every moment was a struggle for her. Dr. Hooper could not be banished from her mind and the empty ache in her heart was a strong and constant presence. It was becoming harder and harder for her intellectual passions to hold her attention and food so little interested her that she often forgot to eat. As a result, shadows formed around her eyes and her already thin frame became almost skeletal. Within a year, her daily activities were reduced almost exclusively to sitting, walking, and riding.

"You look unwell," Jean commented one March morning upon arriving at Oxfield. Sherlocke ignored her. "Your parents are concerned for you, my friend."

"My parents are always concerned."

"A change would do you good."

"Clearly you are here to make a request of me. Out with it, then." Sherlocke gestured for Jean to take the seat opposite her, as she so often did when she visited. Jean sighed and obliged before answering.

"As you know, I am due to become Mrs. Mark Morstan in June."

"Yes. I do hope you've come for a better purpose than to reaffirm that I will be attending your wedding."

"Please allow me to finish," Jean shot back. "I have called to ask you if you would be my bridesmaid." To say that this was unexpected would be quite an understatement. Sherlocke stared back at her for a long and awkward few minutes.

"Yes. Yes, I will do this for you," Sherlocke finally said and Jean beamed at her fondly. With nothing better to do, Sherlocke spent much of her time leading up to the wedding focusing on her duties as bridesmaid. When the wedding day arrived, she was _entirely_ devoted to the needs of Jean and Mr. Morstan. She could not allow herself a single moments rest or even distraction, for she could not expose herself to the risk of the proceedings reminding her of Dr. Hooper. He had, after all, sought her hand in marriage and that was the entire reason for the abrupt end to their relationship. If her mind were not completely taken over by the task of seeing to it that her best friend's wedding day was perfect, the void in her chest surely would consume her. It was not just thoughts of Dr. Hooper that put her at risk either; it was the sight of so many happy people, of the attention and praise being heaped upon the newlyweds.

Sherlocke did well in maintaining her focus through the day, right up until the reception dinner. Dr. Hooper had been seated directly in her view and she went pale as a sheet the moment she sat down and caught sight of his lovely smile. They made eye contact for a brief moment and Sherlocke spent the rest of the dinner firmly engaged with her plate, only looking up when Mr. Morstan's best man stood to give a clever speech in his Irish burr.

In the evening, when it was time for dancing, Sherlocke soon discovered that though the best man had wit, he did not have grace. She began to compare him to Dr. Hooper in her head as she danced with him. Then suddenly Dr. Hooper himself was before her, taking her hand, his touch sending a shock up her arm as he twirled her around.

"Miss Holmes," he acknowledged quietly with a nod.

"Dr. Hooper," she returned, her voice emotionless. She could not let him know how the sight of him affected her, else he might assume things about her attitude towards him that were not true.

"I must tell you that I accepted your friendship with no unspoken expectations. My affections were an unforeseen development." This confession took Sherlocke off guard. She had spent months thinking that he had tricked her and betrayed her trust and now he told her information that nullified all of that. He had fallen in love with her without ever meaning to and she had wrongfully scorned him for it. She understood that now that she had some experience with emotions that could not be helped.

"I see," was all she could bring herself to say in reply. The pattern of the dance then brought her back to her original partner and she felt stunned by the realization that she wanted to be with Dr. Hooper. She wanted to dance with him, to feel the exhilaration of his touch, to have him at her side always. A voice in the back of her mind sneered that she had missed her chance and that she did not deserve him. She looked to see who it was that had stood up with him. It was a young lady with dark curly hair and icy eyes. Her dress was the same shade of blue as Sherlock's own but in a different cut. "Who is that lady with Dr. Hooper?" Sherlocke asked Jean.

"That's Miss Tamsin Ellsworth, his fiancée." His _fiancée_. Sherlocke forgot for a few seconds to breathe. The ache asserted itself forcefully on her thoughts and it was not until she had returned to Oxfield that she finally understood that the emptiness inside her was the pain of loneliness.

* * *

The time in which the Morstans were away was agonizingly lonely for Sherlocke. She saw now that she needed others in order to be truly content with life. She hated herself for that dependency, but there did not seem to be anything she could do to change it. Most damning of all was the fact that she continued to have a very particular craving for the companionship of Matthew Hooper, a man who was no longer within her reach. He had loved her and because she had not been able to see it, all hope for their relationship had been destroyed. He now turned his affections to another woman and Sherlocke convinced herself that she deserved this torment. So many people had told her she was an evil creature that it only seemed reasonable, especially when one considered how badly she had treated Dr. Hooper.

Sherlocke chose to write a brief letter to the coroner in hopes of tying up all of the loose ends of the matter and thereby finding some manner of peace. It read:

_Dearest Dr. Hooper,_

_In reflection of the information which you gave to me at the Morstans' wedding, I see that I was very much mistaken about you. I was hasty in my conclusions and I am now filled with regret. I hope that in time you might come to forgive me for my actions, but I do not expect it._

_You matter more to me than I am capable of expressing. I only wish that I had realized it sooner. You are a brilliant, good man, Matthew Hooper, and you deserve the best. To you and your bride, I extend the greatest hopes of happiness and the assurance that I will never trespass upon your lives. This is farewell._

_Forever yours truly,_

_Sherlocke Holmes_

She posted this letter the following morning and was pleased to find that her thoughts and feelings on the matter would now consent to being buried in the dungeons of her mind palace. Unfortunately, the rest of the world did not seem at all content to do the same.

Sherlocke's elder sister, Maybelle Anthony (née Holmes), called at Oxfield not long after the letter to Dr. Hooper had been sent.

"I am very much surprised at you, Sherlocke. I never thought you would deign to fall in love," Maybelle responded when Sherlocke demanded to know why she had come.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlocke shot back. She never presented any pretense of politeness with her sister, although Maybelle always insisted on maintaining a certain decorum on her end of the conversation.

"Ridiculous? My dear girl, it is the bald faced truth. Why else would you write to a man with the words 'forever yours truly'? Only love could force you to write a letter utterly dripping with sentiment." There was a hint of mockery in the elder woman's tone that was slightly stronger than the one she included with nearly everything that she said. Sherlocke bristled at her words.

"You read my letter?" she inquired furiously. She knew that Maybelle and Mr. Anthony were active in the workings of the government, but Sherlocke had never believed that her sister would use her power to spy on her own family. Maybelle did not seem at all ashamed of herself.

"Yes, and I must say that its intended recipient was quite stirred by it."

"Was he indeed?" Sherlocke attempted to disguise her spark of interest with an air of indifference, but nothing ever got past Maybelle.

"Yes, and Miss Ellsworth was notably displeased by the entire situation. I see that look of hope in your eyes, sister, and you would do well to abandon it. You are a creature of logic, not feeling. Taking this path will lead you and everyone involved to ruin," Maybelle warned and Sherlocke's anger flared.

"Oh please. You lecture me about the dangers of sentiment and yet you are married with children. Claim that it is nothing more than a socially and financially beneficial relationship if you will, but all who see you know that you love what you have," she snapped, but her words failed to rouse her sister.

"We both know that you are not capable of everything that I am." Sherlocke would not continue to sit there and allow herself to be so insulted. She stood to walk briskly to the door and open it, gesturing out into the corridor.

"Leave and do not return," she commanded. Maybelle quietly made her way over, stopping beside her little sister to reply.

"This is not your home, sister mine. It belongs to our parents and they will see me whenever they like. You do not and I pray never will have a home that is truly yours."

"_Sister mine!_" Sherlocke seethed, raising a hand to strike Maybelle, but the older woman was gone before she could swing.

Alone once again, Sherlocke went to the window of her study and gazed out at the vast green of the soft grass fields where so many wonderful memories had been made. She hated that Maybelle was right in saying that she was better off casting aside her sentiments. She was not meant for such things and there was no use in dwelling on them when their subject did not love her anymore.

Those thoughts brought a burning pressure behind her eyes until it broke free and spilled down her angular cheeks in hot, wet streams. For the first time since she had been a child, she wept, no longer able to hold her pain inside.

* * *

The day after Maybelle's visit, Sherlocke fell ill and was confined to her bed for a miserable three weeks. The doctor said that she suffered from nerves and would need much rest in order to recover. It seemed to take an age, but she did get better and she was eventually allowed out of bed to work on experiments in her study. She loved the calm and the focus of it in addition to being able to satisfy her curiosities. Experimenting again proved effective in making her feel like herself once more. Matthew Hooper would have passed as a forgotten chapter in her life then if her friends had not been so determined to give her a happy ending.

Jean wrote to invite her to Agraley for the holidays. Seeing no reason to decline since she would rather spend the time with friends than with her family (Maybelle being the reason), Sherlocke sent a reply of acceptance and made preparations for her stay.

The world was covered in a blanket of snow when Sherlocke finally arrived at Agraley. She was wrapped up in her black wool cloak when she stepped out of her carriage and gazed at the grand old building. It was a wonderful place, filled with interesting items from around the world which Mr. Morstan had no doubt acquired during his travels.

The Morstans did not seem to be home when Sherlocke got there, seeing as they did not appear to greet her. After being shown her rooms, she wandered about the house, looking with fascination at the furnishings. She had been examining a small sculpture of a monkey when music reached her ears. A sorrowful tune was pouring from a piano and it was absolutely bewitching. She eagerly follow the sound to its source in the sitting room. Her breath hitched in her throat when she caught sight of the musician. There could be no mistaking that neatly arranged brown hair and the nimbleness of those pale fingers, nor the evidence of the reading spectacles resting on top of the piano, abandoned along with the sheet music in favour of something from the heart. She stood there in the doorway, listening to the mesmerizing music. She had known that he could play but she had never imagined him to be quite so brilliant at it.

Damn Matthew Hooper and his ability to always find his way back into her life.

"You play beautifully," she commented when the last note of the song had faded and Dr. Hooper jumped, turning abruptly to look at her with shock written all over his features.

"Miss Holmes."

"How is Miss...Ellsworth?" she asked as a means of showing him that she did not mean to impose, though she came further into the room. Dr. Hooper's face fell.

"I'm afraid I do not know. I have not spoken to her since she ended our engagement." That explained the sentiment in his music. "I did not know you would be coming," he continued awkwardly. "How are you? I heard that you were ill."

"I did not know you would be here either and I'm much better, thank you." They stared at each other for a good minute or so before Dr. Hooper moved towards the door.

"I'm sorry if I have disturbed you with my music. I'll not trouble you further." As he passed, Sherlocke caught him by the shoulder and held him back.

"Please don't walk away from me. Not again." Sherlocke was not accustomed to begging anything of anyone, but given that Dr. Hooper had always had the effect of humbling her, it hardly seemed remarkable. He looked back at her, stunned. "I...I need you," she confessed.

"What for?" He seemed genuinely confused, as if he could not imagine a world in which Sherlocke Holmes was in need of anyone, least of all him. Did he still think that he meant nothing to her? How utterly unacceptable.

"I...I..." She struggled to articulate the thousands of thoughts that were racing through her mind, each explaining every way in which he mattered to her. She had no words for these feelings. She had never bothered to closely examine them before out of fear. Hesitantly, she reached up to touch Dr. Hooper's face, but anxiety overtook her and she withdrew before contact could be made.

"Did you mean everything that you said in that letter?"

"Yes."

"Do you love me?"

"Yes." The word came out of her mouth as if it was the most natural thing in the world and it astonished her. Dr. Hooper took her hand in both his own to hold it to his heart.

"Then my offer is renewed." With those words, nearly all of her fears were silenced and cupped his cheek in her hand, making him close his eyes and lean into her touch.

"I accept, Matthew Hooper," Sherlocke replied before pulling him down so that she could capture his lips with her own. He wrapped his arms around her and responded passionately, causing her heart to soar. The smile he wore when they parted was the loveliest one she had ever seen and she could feel the vibrations of his delighted laughter in her chest. She had never imagined that there could be any greater pleasure in the world for her than proving a hypothesis, yet here was just such a thing before her. Maybelle was wrong about everything and Sherlocke was now determined to show it.

**A/N: What do you think? I know the language isn't perfect, but this oneshot came out sort of in the same manner as toothpaste from an open tube that's been trodden on, so I didn't stop much to do research. Hopefully it's not too bad.**


End file.
